A Letter To Sir
by Belladonna1185
Summary: "So today, on our tenth anniversary, I felt compelled to let you know, on paper, how much you have enriched my life. I love you now and I always will." Written for the HPOwned Summer of Slaves Fest on LJ.


Sir,

I have never been one to find pleasure in writing. I have done it for school, but the task is not something that I overly enjoy and actively pursue as a means of recreation. Unlike you, I have never mastered the art of the English language (which you have reminded me of repeatedly throughout our association). Nevertheless, I find myself compelled to write you this long and overdue letter. Please forgive my clumsy attempt to arrange my thoughts on paper in such a fashion. I will be honest and coherent to the best of my ability.

Though I know that I shouldn't be, I am a bit daunted by the prospect of writing to you, a man with a superior ability to my own. I know you will never make light of the things I write. You will handle them with the tenderest care (Something that very few people believe you are capable of, but I know that you are and that you can.).

To say that we disliked one another would be on par to saying the Weasley's have a large family— rather obvious in every way imaginable and too redundant to mention. From the very first, you believed me to be spoilt, privileged, and an insufferable glory hound. I thought that you were a vile, sharp-tongued villain. You thought that I was rash (which I was) and I thought you to be spiteful (which you were). You whole-heartedly believed that Dumbledore, although good intentioned, let me run amuck (which he did). While I believed, quite wrongly, that you were to be blamed for every piece of intrigue and Machiavellian scheming at Hogwarts.

At the time, I knew little of my past. I had only discovered a month before our first meeting that I was a wizard. I had no knowledge that magic even existed. I only imagined, hoped, and prayed for something that fantastical to be true while trapped in my dark, cobweb filled cupboard. For the first ten years of my life, I pictured faraway lands filled with dragons and other exotic creatures of myth and legend. There, in that place so far away from my painful existence at Number 12 Privet Drive, I had a mother and father who loved me, who didn't die in a car accident, for, being magical, they could protect themselves from something as ordinary as a car collision. To put it simply, I had grown up with only lies and half-truths for company. Until my eleventh birthday, I had no knowledge of my heritage, a deficit I still find myself suffering from, even after all these years.

Had I known then what I do now, had I not been so eager to assimilate into the strange, new territory I found myself in, not taken the advice of friends newly met, had more than passing conversations about what to expect, I like to believe that things between us could have begun better. Even now, I wonder if being sorted into Slytherin would have hastened or impeded the relationship we have now. Would you have accepted me as one of your own? Could you have looked past the surface resemblance to my father and seen me for who I truly was? Would I have been less impulsive and judgmental, trusting Dumbledore's faith in your loyalty? I do not know. I like to believe that those things would have occurred, but I suppose we will never have an answer. I cannot say that I am sorry for how my life has been, as I am happier now than I ever imagined I could be, but I will always be plagued with nagging questions, with ifs or maybes, haunted by the idea that things might have happened sooner, and smoother.

As I write this, I remember the first time I saw your face; you with your dark airs and intense focus, gazing at me across the crowded Great Hall. At the time, I believed you to be glaring at me. You probably were, knowing you. How could I have known that meeting you would alter my path forever? At the tender age of eleven, the thought that you would become one of the defining factors of my life, that you already were a defining force was something beyond my comprehension. I remember looking at you and being scared, yet defiant (a trait that I have never managed to outgrow).

Now, though you will _never_, admit it, the seeds of animosity on my end were sewn by you. _'Mr. Potter, our new celebrity.'_ I know those words haunt you, now that you know the truth. If I have never said it before now, I forgive you for that, for all of the vitriol spewed in my direction. Without it, I'm not sure I _wouldn't_ have become all that you believed me to be. There was every possibility that I could have begun a second generation of Marauders.

I shudder to think what would have happened had you not been there to save Draco in sixth year. I could have killed him; I nearly did. It didn't occur to me, until the moment I saw his blood spilling over the lavatory tiles that I had become the Sirius to his Snape. While we were both to blame, we had been duelling after all, I had escalated the situation from rivalry to involuntary manslaughter. I can never be more grateful to you than I was at that moment. I suppose that was the moment things shifted between us.

I was so lost.

My last hope for a family had been torn out of my hands by a careless flick of a wand. I had been possessed by Voldemort, was alienated from my friends. I was drowning: in pressure, in responsibility, in expectation. You saw it. You were the only one to recognize that I was floundering. The life preserver that you extended to me was nothing short of miraculous. I don't say this to be dramatic, as you often accuse me of being; I say it in a meager attempt to express how grateful I am to you for recognizing that I needed help. You could see that I needed to give up control.

When you dragged me down to the dungeon that night, once Madame Pomfrey had come to care for Draco, I was terrified. I thought that you'd kill me, torture me, turn me over to Voldemort; I don't know what. You didn't do any of that though.

Instead, you pulled us over to the sofa, turned me over your knee, and spanked me. I was so startled by the first touch of your hand, that I barely registered anything else. Then you swatted me again and I _felt_ it. You gave me twenty that first night, and with every rap of your hand, I felt lighter. With the delivery of every blow, the cacophony inside my head grew quieter, until there was nothing but the heat, the sound of your hand on my arse, your strong, thin legs anchoring me to the world. When the last blow fell, you gently stroked my clothed flesh, calming me, reassuring me. The tenderness of your touch broke the last of my resistance, and I cried.

There in your rooms, with my arse in the air, your long fingers moving in soothing circles, I finally let go, and you were there to catch me. You held me in your arms, gently petting my back, and let me cry until there was nothing left. It was comforting and chaste and it made me long for more, a sharper intimacy that I never expected to long for from _you_. Finally, I found the peace that I had longed for with the man whom I had professed to hate. From that night on, I came to you. With you, I could finally let go, be free, and it was, and still is, glorious.

I know that it was a difficult decision to let others know about us, but I am glad that it is no longer a secret. It is not, nor has it ever been something shameful to be kept quiet and only acknowledged under the cover of nightfall. We knew it would be difficult, but I'm not sure either of us fully comprehended the ramifications of our actions.

Now that our relationship has become known, people mistakenly believe that you took advantage of me while I was still at school and still do now, even though we have been together for a decade; that it was only about sex. That people, friends and colleagues, insinuate that you corrupted me affects you more than you are willing to admit. I know it does. Under that acerbic exterior is a man that is far tenderer than his persona reveals, a man that craves the respect that he rightfully deserves, that longs for acceptance.

I wish I could convince them that it wasn't just about sex.

There is so much misinformation about our lifestyle. People see your collar on me and think that we are nothing but degenerate, sex fiends; and while I do love the deliciously perverted things we do, that is not the sum total of our relationship. How can I make them understand that the highlight of my evenings is when I am cooking dinner for you, cooking potions (a term you always hate when I use) with you, cleaning your rooms, scrubbing the classroom cauldrons? How can I sufficiently explain the joy of kneeling naked at your feet, your hand absently stroking my hair? How can I make them believe that I found freedom in the routine you've set for me?

In giving you total control, by your letting me take care of you, I reclaimed myself. Every action you have ever taken towards me has been about protecting me, cherishing me.  
We did not even have sex until you had been my master (though you hate being referred to as such) for a year and not before I reached my majority. You were too moral a man to have allowed anything like that to happen between us, even though I longed for it.

I had been a virgin when we began our relationship. I am so thankful that I was. I can imagine no other lover as skilled, caring, and in tune to my needs as you. Feeling you so deep within me, unable to come because of the binding tightness of leather and steel around my cock and sac…. the things you did to me that night.

The tight pull of rope, being stuffed so full I'd feel on the verge of bursting, warm hands wandering over my skin, sharp, cutting blows of pain that are so beautifully delicious they'd steal my breath: these things you knew I craved and you gave them to me a thousand-fold. You knew, as you always know, exactly what I needed and it has only gotten better over the years. You have pushed me to my limits, disciplined me when I needed it, praised me when it was due, helped me discover what I wanted sexually, what I wanted professionally. You are my rock, my anchor.

The day you asked me to be yours forever, to wear your collar, I cried with joy. I had only ever wanted to _belong_to someone. That it was _you_…I cannot believe my good fortune. The ceremony we had last year was a small affair, but a beautiful one. To be able to stand naked in front of our friends and family and publicly acknowledge our commitment to each other was the happiest day of my life; better than defeating Voldemort, better than finishing Hogwarts, better than anything, yes, even Quidditch. As we stood on the dais, I remember thinking how beautiful you looked. I know you will scoff when you read this, but you were. Your silky black robes fluttered against my skin as we spoke, the magic swirling around us, and the instant you locked your collar into place, I knew that I was home.

As I'm writing this, I find myself stroking your collar; the solid, reassuring weight of leather around my neck is a constant reminder of you, of how much I love you, the absurdities of life, and how grateful I am for how things turned out in the end. I would not have found myself if not for you. You, who saw that spark hidden within me, saw that hunger that I had yet to name. You cared for me, taught me, helped heal the old wounds. You gave me a purpose outside of being the Saviour of the world. You grounded me.

So today, on our tenth anniversary, I felt compelled to let you know, on paper, how much you have enriched my life. I love you now and I always will. You, Sir, have given me the greatest gift that anyone could give another person. You have given me myself. For this rare gift, I will always continue to be truly grateful.

Yours,

Harry.


End file.
